Feels Like Home
by King Avery
Summary: Sherlock decides to take one thing undercover with him to connect him to home. what screams 'home' to Sherlock Holmes? after an endless two years clinging to this item how will the actual reunion go?
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: I do not own Sherlock. This is based off a prompt about Sherlock taking one of John's sweaters with him undercover. Part one will be after The Fall and part two will be his return.**_

XxX

Lazarus succeeded. John believes he is dead. Sherlock has had only a few days to clear the remnants of Moriarty from London and now he has one hour while John is still walking with Mrs. Hudson to get what he needs from the flat and make it to Mycroft's. He was expected to go straight from Molly's but the detour was absolutely necessary. Sherlock finds he wants to take something to remind him of home. Much like a soldier bringing pictures on a deployment he wants something to be sure he doesn't forget what he is going to do this for. London had been quick but who knows how long the actual mission would take. Moriarty's web encompassed most of the globe.

This is why Sherlock is currently sneaking into 221B through a back window in 221A –he can't risk being seen by anyone and having them mention it to John or Mrs. Hudson. The question now is what to bring. What represents 'home' most to him? Sherlock absently picks up his skull, rolling it in his hands thoughtfully.

"Alas, poor Yorick, no." He replaces the bone. It was too iconic; john would immediately notice it being gone. His good coat and scarf were being buried across London, but they didn't feel right. Neither had the skull. Nor the violin. Or any of his scientific instruments. Nothing of his seemed to correctly capture the concept of home. Not even his key to the flat.

Sherlock flops heavily in his chair and his fingers steeple under his chin on reflex. He stares into dead space to analyze the items around him again. Nothing. He comes out of his mind palace and is about to storm out; throwing away his whim of sentimentality when he focuses on the chair just across from his. One of John's horrible jumpers is thrown haphazardly over the back –so unlike the military man, must be the grief Sherlock decides.

Curiously Sherlock stands and picks it up as he had done the skull. Practical: he may need to blend in and he may be in cold places. Part of home: the point of this visit, it would also remind him of John who was also a part of home. And….it feels right. Sherlock pulls the fabric up to his nose and smells it. Tea, soap, disinfectant, cologne –faintly, and musk: John.

This is as close to home as he can get so this is what Sherlock takes, his only item of his own for who knows how long. John, in his pain, didn't even notice it missing. Surprisingly the sweater is well taken care of on this mission. It goes to every safe house on every leg of the journey. John's smell had long since smelled of john but Sherlock can convince himself it does most nights. Every time he gets some sleep –he learned early on to take it when he could- it's close. It is most often bunched up under his head as a pillow or worn as a security item.

It soaks up sweat and blood but also gallons of tears on its journey. Sherlock would never admit to it but he is incredibly lonely now. John had become so deeply ingrained in Sherlock's life that now he barely knows how to function without his blogger. A few months in and he'd taken to talking to the clothing as if it were the man himself on the worst nights.

"One year, ten months, two weeks, five days, thirteen hours and forty two minutes since I saw you last, John. This is finally almost done. I should be able to return home soon. I want nothing more than to see you." Sherlock sighs and pulls the ragged material closer to his chest. He reviews all he knows of the Russian cell he'd be penetrating tomorrow. He recites it aloud to "John" to bounce strategies off him; simulating the responses as best he could in his mind.

It proves to be unhelpful, without his conductor of light present the reality of his talking to a jumper sinks in and only makes him more homesick. His plan was good enough as it was, he decides. So, Sherlock gives up and attempts getting a few hours of sleep. In the wee hours of the morning he is jolted awake, chest constricted tightly in fear. It was to be one of the endless, painful nights then.

He looks around worriedly before finding the jumper on the ground. He quickly snatches it up and pulls it on over his shirt. He needed to feel it's warmth after that vicious dream. You see, Sherlock as long since cared about his own safety. It was John he'd dreamt of. John being tortured by that _filth_ Moriarty. Logically he knows it would be impossible but then, Sherlock was hardly ever logical when it came to John Watson. "John…I miss you," he whispers thickly into the empty air. "When I return I'll never leave you behind again. This is hell."

Not long after this breakdown Sherlock has eliminated his last target. In the process he had been captured. Now, without his connection to home he is lost. His dependence on the item made it impossible to completely escape to his mind palace and block it all out. He's there for what could have been a day or weeks before Mycroft comes for him. For the first time in years that voice was a welcome thing. It was saying he would be going home. Back to England, London, Baker Street. Back home to his John.


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N: again, I don't own Sherlock. I'm nowhere near clever enough for that.**_

XxX

A shower, shave, haircut and change of clothes can really change a person. Blocking out the pain, Sherlock looks himself over in the mirror he hardly recognizes himself like this, but oh does it feel to be back to normal. If only Mycroft wasn't there to ruin his mood.

He's handed a pointless file and is given an even more pointless warning. He knew how he would find John, Home at Baker Street and working at the clinic. He will be upset, of course. Anger is anticipated but things could go back to how they had been.

You can imagine the surprise when Sherlock finds himself being dropped off outside a restaurant. Must be a birthday or something. He can roll with that; it'll be fun to surprise John.

Sherlock steps inside the building excitedly but stops short, fumbling when he sees John. The real John is sitting there in the flesh. It's almost unbelievable even with the horrid moustache. He's looking nervous for some reason. Oh, no. Did Mycroft set this up? No, that's a ring box John is fiddling with. He is about to propose to someone. That _can't_ be right. Sherlock adopts a quick disguise, deciding to surprise John this way and simultaneously get a better read on him.

Is that? That _is_ a woman sitting with John. In an intimate setting… John replaced him. After everything they've done and seen John had replaced him. This couldn't be happening. Sherlock feels his chest constrict painfully, so painfully he can't breathe.

It's a relief when John attacks him. The pain of John slamming him into the table and the fresh wounds on his back opening again distract him from the crippling emotional pain filling him.

His John had moved on. His John seemed to hate him now. There was no unconscious avoidance of his nose and teeth; in fact John seemed to be aiming there. His John wasn't allowing him to explain. The rage in his eyes, the cold distance it chilled Sherlock to the bone.

No, this isn't how it was meant to go. Two years really was a long time. Anger was expected but certainly not to this degree. The girl he is dragging along, this Mary, she seemed kind. It only makes it harder to dislike her when she says she'll 'talk him round' for Sherlock. All he'd wanted was to be reunited with his John but now here is this third wheel making a bad night worse. But he can't ruin such a serious relationship. The flings and the girlfriends yes, but John was going to propose.

Sherlock couldn't do that to him –as tempting as it was. John being happy is more important. With them gone in a cab Sherlock trudges back to his flat, too drained to analyze anything. There would be time for that tomorrow. He goes straight up to John's old room –still a few things kept there. A good sign. He opens the wardrobe and finds one of the old Christmas jumpers. The scent is a bit stale but thankfully still there. He takes it to the cold bed and lies down. Sherlock nods off hoping this was another of his twisted nightmares and that he would awaken in the back of Mycroft's car on his way back to see John. His heart is breaking and his mind is spinning out of control knowing it is not so. He is living the nightmare now.


End file.
